


perfect paradise (tearing at the seams)

by Iceshard1011



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: 1. it's a good read, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Brief Internalized Transphobia, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Has PTSD, Crying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanfiction, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, References to Depression, Unreliable Narrator, and 2. this will spoil the hell out of it, because i'm a predictable nerd, for the love of god read that first, it's LAMP but there's a focus on Prinxiety, spoilers for patentpending's Powerless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-23
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-26 21:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30112209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iceshard1011/pseuds/Iceshard1011
Summary: Three times Roman panicked over Virgil, and one time Virgil panicked over Roman.Speculated alternate universal continuation of patentpending’s Powerless.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil/Creativity | Roman/Logic | Logan/Morality | Patton, Kaimi Alvi/Katrina "Calamity" Santos
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	perfect paradise (tearing at the seams)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [patentpending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patentpending/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Powerless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13481223) by [patentpending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patentpending/pseuds/patentpending). 



> trigger warnings for graphic reactions to PTSD-induced flashbacks, vomiting, harassment, mention of therapy

Patton got it slightly worse than Logan. Kaimi, the passionate yet kind-hearted and humble reporter — a sweet girl who couldn’t stand a mere picture of a drop of blood — was somewhere between the two. Perhaps unsurprisingly, however, ex-superhero Roman ‘The Prince’ Garcia had it the worst.

The actor could hardly be blamed. He had already suffered a fair amount of nightmares, waking up with a jolt in his penthouse’s bed, with Missy blinking sleepily up at him and asking what was wrong.

One doesn’t simply live through years of battles and fighting and bloodshed and walk away without demons. The names across Roman’s chest said as much.

He had seen his fair share of death over years of being The Prince, and while admitting this was sickening, it was not something Roman was unfamiliar with. He’d watched people die in front of him. He had caused many of the deaths himself during the fights.

He knew all this.

He also knew that it was completely logical to react to a particular, recent death in a particularly violent, particularly traumatised manner.

(He also knew he was never particularly good at listening to anyone, even himself.)

Sometimes, Roman Garcia had bad days. Days where he woke up and felt sick to his stomach for just existing. Days where he struggled to move, because the images flashing through his mind made his head spin. Days where he couldn’t look anyone in the eyes, where he barely ate, where he quailed away from comforting touches and wanted to slam his hands over the sides of his head and scream when voices tried to ask what was wrong.

He wasn’t sure what these days meant. He felt too much to be depressed. It went on far too long to be anxiety attacks. It felt too different to the post-traumatic stress episodes he had when struggling to find his way home after the sun had set.

(But he never voiced any of this, because somehow, he had a feeling Logan would vehemently disagree, which spoke levels of itself.)

Sometimes, Roman could feel the Bad Days approaching. Sometimes he struggled to fall asleep, with a strange pit curling inside him somewhere. Sometimes, it didn’t travel into the following day.

Most times, though, it did.

It was one of those Bad Days. Sometimes Roman tried to ignore it. He tried to act his way out of it. He didn’t like having Bad Days, not only because they made him feel like he was _literally dying and he wanted it to stop he wanted to stop thinking stop moving stop breathing he wanted it to stop stop stop STOP!_

But because he didn’t want to take away from his family’s bad days. Even with Patton’s coloured wristbands, the little puffball still struggled sometimes — and that was okay! They all always did their best to make sure the heart of their group was okay, and comfortable, and did everything they could.

Logan’s back still ached some days. Sometimes, it was so bad he couldn’t move from bed, and had to spend hours trying to just sit up. It was painful to watch, and Roman knew he hated sympathy, so he did his best not to show the way his heart twisted at the sight of the astronomer’s pain.

Virgil covered his bad days so well. Roman imagined it was the built-up practice of having days throughout his entire life dealing with dysphoria and discrimination and judgement and being spat on and ridiculed for something he couldn’t help. He may have been used to those kinds of bad days, but obviously not the days brought on by guilt, by the thoughts of what the thing _he_ created did to people all over the world, the destruction and horror and death, all in the wake of his too-brilliant mind and too-nimble fingers. Those days were usually preceded by slow days with not much activity, phantom pains, struggling movements to do so much as hold a mug with his prosthetic arm.

It really wasn’t a surprise that Roman’s Bad Days followed Virgil’s.

So, he tried to smile, tried to stop his hands from shaking, tried to not crumble with every step he took.

Somehow, it was never enough.

On this particular Bad Day, Roman was trembling. He did that, sometimes, when it was really bad. He couldn’t stop. It was a constant tremor, in his nerves, shooting through his blood, curling in his limbs, shuddering up his body.

He had done his best to avoid his roommates. He had slept in that morning, half genuinely trying to go back to sleep, half feigning sleep whenever Virgil quietly shuffled into the room to check on him. When he finally got out from under the covers, he spent at least an hour and a half in the bathroom, under scalding shower water and making himself more presentable than strictly necessary as he _knew_ he was not going to be mentally equipped to leave the apartment today.

“‘Morning,” a quiet, gruff voice greeted Roman as he finally mustered up the coward to step out of the comforts of his bedroom.

Almost immediately, the confidence he’d been trying to summon all morning threatened to leave him.

Roman swallowed. “Good morning, Sunshine!” he chirped merrily, gliding into the living room. “Where’s the rest of the fam?”

“Went out for lunch,” Virgil said from the kitchen. Roman blinked, and Virgil glanced over his shoulder at the silence. “It’s one in the afternoon, Ro.”

“Oh.” Roman felt slightly faint, but he wasn’t sure if that was part of having a Bad Day.

“You must have had something of a busy night.” Virgil smirked and skulked from the kitchen, moving over to him, and Roman wondered if he was going to need to rush back into the bathroom. “Insatiable thoughts keeping you up, love?”

Roman’s tongue was heavy. “Not quite,” was all he could murmur in reply.

Virgil’s perfect brow furrowed, his gorgeous eyes flicking with worry, and his lips were _not_ flecked with blood, that was just Roman’s imagination, they were in the apartment and it was fine, and oh god, he was losing it, he couldn’t keep it together, not today, not right now, he was going to— he needed—

“Roman!” Virgil’s yelp of concern was drowned out by the roaring in Roman’s ears as he threw up in the kitchen trash can. The ex-hero’s arms trembled in an effort to keep him up.

_Focus, focus. It’s okay. It’s fine._

Gravity felt like it was trying it’s best to drag him to the ground. He felt just like he had when he’d first lost his powers, trembling and scared and desperate—

He heaved again.

There was a smooth, rubbing sensation running up and down his back, and it helped as he coughed and spluttered and hacked up more bile.

“Oh, baby,” Virgil’s voice whispered, and Roman’s stomach twisted again, but he had nothing left to throw up. “I didn’t know you were feeling sick.”

“‘M not,” Roman mumbled, feeling light-headed.

“Let’s get you back to bed, yeah?” Virgil murmured, and Roman felt boneless as his boyfriend guided him into their bedroom. Something damp and warm wiped at his face and he pulled away with a grimace. Something else was thrust in his face, and he squinted at it.

“Rinse and spit,” Virgil ordered, gesturing to the glass of water and the tub he was holding. Roman obeyed without protest, then sunk back down against the bed sheets he’d fought so hard to escape from.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but it seemed to go far too quick before Virgil was back beside him.

“Did you eat something funky?” Virgil asked, pressing a blessedly cold hand to Roman’s flushed forehead. “No one else was feeling ill.”

It took a minute for Roman to realise that the reason Virgil’s hand was so cold wasn’t due to his natural lack of normal bodily heat, but because it was his metal hand. The one he had made for himself, after he had lost it, after his eyes had widened and gone pale and—

Roman was going to be sick again.

He wondered, though, if he was going to vomit, why Virgil had not rushed to get something for him and had instead sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Roman against him.

It was a moment before he realised that the thing bursting from his chest wasn’t vomit, but hoarse, screaming wails.

Virgil hushed him over and over again. He ran his hands — only one hand really, and god Roman’s chest was hurting, was he even breathing? — up and down Roman’s back, through his hair, caressing his cheeks, rubbing his arms. Anything and everything to try and soothe his boyfriend.

Virgil would be lying if he said he wasn’t scared. He had never seen Roman like this. Even at his wits end as a hero, even in the heat of a battle, no matter what had happened, Roman had never broken like this, ever.

Virgil, in no way, thought Roman was broken, as a rule. He wasn’t useless or weak or any of the things he knew Roman struggled with labelling himself. After everything, he was still one of the strongest people Virgil knew, and he had met many people over the course of a few months.

So what on Earth could have set Roman off? He knew sometimes that the ex-hero struggled with not being able to zip around town to nab food, or smell the far-off ocean, or hear his family’s heartbeat unless he was pressed against their chest… but he had never broken down just like this.

Maybe it was a build-up. Maybe it was everything that had piled onto him spilling out. It was certainly a possibility, wasn’t it?

But then Virgil pressed his hand — the right one — to Roman’s flushed cheek, and his boyfriend _keened,_ jerking away from him and scrambling back across the bed.

Horrified, Virgil raised his hands.

“Hey, sorry, baby,” he said, as gently as he could.

Roman’s chest was heaving, the only colour in his face from the flush of loss of oxygen from crying. His eyes were wide and wild and darted around. He was shaking all over. He’d stopped screaming, but his mouth still hung open, like he meant to keep crying but had rubbed his throat raw.

“What is it?” Virgil asked, and Roman met his eyes. “Tell me what’s happening, Ro.”

Roman looked like he was torn between reaching for Virgil and tearing into his own scalp — and, well, Virgil knew which one he personally preferred.

“Can I come over?” he asked. Roman buried his face into his knees and whimpered. “I’m going to sit next to you, okay?” He slowly shuffled forward, making sure to be as obvious about where he was at all times. He leaned forward so his breath brushed against Roman’s bangs. He didn’t touch him. “Hey.”

Roman didn't look up, but his quivering, pale, sweaty hand moved from where it was clutching the blankets and inched over to grasp the edge of Virgil’s sleeve.

“I’m here,” he assured Roman softly. “Just take your time.” Roman’s shoulders shook. Slowly, carefully, Virgil linked their pinkies together. “Breathe, Pretty Boy. You’re okay.”

“I’m— sorry, I’m _sorry—”_ Roman gasped, but Virgil cut him off.

“Ah-ah.” He shuffled ever closer, brushing their legs together. “No apologising.”

“I couldn’t— I— you—”

“Breathe.” Virgil pulled Roman’s hand up by the sleeve, not kissing it but just barely pressing his lips to his boyfriend’s calloused knuckles. “Four, seven, eight, remember? Four, seven, eight.”

Roman nodded unsteadily.

They sat like that, for what could have been minutes or hours, Virgil wasn’t sure. Logan and Patton hadn’t planned on returning for another few hours, so that allowed the pair to sit in relative silence. Roman’s heavy breaths still shook in the still air, and every now and then he whimpered. Virgil didn’t move to touch him. Roman didn’t pull away. Virgil wondered if he had had a sensory overload.

“Do you want the fidget cube?” he asked softly. Roman hesitated.

“Where is it?” he asked in a rasping voice.

“Wherever you last left it,” Virgil answered with a smirk. He made to pull away. “I’ll go find it.”

Roman’s grip tightened. “No!”

Virgil froze and slowly moved back. “Okay. Staying here.”

“Th-thank you,” he gasped. “I-if you leave, I’m scared— I’ll— spiral—”

Virgil’s throat thickened with the urge to cut him off and tell him to breathe, but maybe Roman needed to say what he was thinking.

“I’ll see— red— it’ll be red and gold all over again— and I can’t— I won’t—”

Virgil frowned. What on Earth was he talking about? He squeezed their fingers.

“Can’t do that again, Virgil, I can’t!”

“Okay,” Virgil said. “I won’t leave.”

“Please don’t,” Roman agreed with a sob. “Please don’t leave me. Please. _Please.”_

“I won’t. I’m not.” Virgil pressed carefully closer. “I’m right here. I’m staying here.”

Roman shuddered and finally lifted his head. His eyes, bloodshot and tired, met Virgil’s, and he had to bite back a gasp.

Roman looked _shattered._ Like someone had taken something that meant the world to him and thrown it to the ground and let the pieces break into millions of tiny little pieces so small and far and in between that there was no hope of ever rebuilding what he’d lost. There was a lump lodging itself in Virgil’s throat.

“What is it, Roman?” he asked, quietly, desperately. “Please talk to me. Let me help. I want to help.”

“Make me stop thinking about it,” Roman begged. “Please, Virgil. I can’t— I can’t live like this anymore, I want it to stop, I need it to stop!”

 _“What,_ baby?” Virgil whispered fervently, moving to kneel in front of Roman and press his hands to his face. “What do I need to stop?”

Roman caved, fresh tears rolling down his face, and he reached up to grasp onto Virgil’s right hand. Virgil couldn’t feel it, but he could see Roman’s knuckles going white in his grip.

It took approximately three seconds.

And then—

_Oh._

“Oh.” Virgil’s voice was choked. He was half worried he was going to throw up next. “Oh, _Roman…”_

“I keep— having these days— bad days, where I can’t think about anything else, and it’s— it’s hard, to function, to do anything, really, and I want to be near you — I really, really do, always, forever, but it gets scary, and it hurts, and all I can think about is— _is—!”_

“Can I hug you?” Virgil asked.

“Please,” sobbed Roman. “Please, _please,_ hug me.”

Half of a second later, Virgil was curled around Roman, protecting him from all angles of the world, wishing more than anything that he could protect Roman from the battle waging inside his own mind.

He thought it could have been the lack of Roman’s powers. If that was the case, love and admiration was required.

If it had been a flashback, or Missy, then a distraction was in order.

If it had been _literally anything else,_ Virgil would have been prepared.

His dumb ass had never once considered anything before or after the moment he woke up, disorientated, and confused in the clearing of that tower, Roman bent over him and shaking like he was now.

Whenever Roman quailed away from his touch, Virgil had always thought that it was a recovering-from-abuse day. When Roman stayed in his room all day, Virgil thought he needed to be by himself for the time. When he refused to meet Virgil’s eyes, he thought he was still mad at him for creating that weapon that destroyed so many lives. When Roman turned Virgil down during nights when he was feeling excited and hungry and that pulling _want_ to be pressed against him, Virgil had let himself worry that it was because he was wrong, because Roman didn’t want someone like him.

All this time, Virgil had been worrying about himself, while Roman had been slowly crumbling under horror and blood.

Virgil swallowed down the emotion clogging his throat.

What the hell was wrong with him?

“I love you,” Roman was saying, over and over and over again, and “I’m sorry, sorry, so sorry,” and Virgil couldn’t have either of that going unchecked.

“Shh,” he hummed, rubbing his back. “It’s okay. Breathe. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Roman looked up, opening his mouth to protest, but Virgil pressed his finger to his boyfriend’s lips. “Ah-ah,” he said softly, “no apologising.” More tears squeezed from Roman’s eyes. Virgil pressed their foreheads together. “I love you, too.”

Roman hiccupped. More tears rolled down his face.

 _That’s it,_ Virgil decided. Arms still around Roman, he sent a quick text to Logan and Patton, either to not worry about returning in time for dinner or being extra quiet when they came back. Then he pulled back (and pressed a kiss to Roman’s temple when he made a wounded noise at the retreat) and moved to close the blinds before wriggling from his binder. He shuffled them both beneath the bed covers.

“Nap time,” he declared.

Roman looked startled. “It’s barely noon.”

“Nap time,” Virgil insisted, and Roman relented. “Come here.” Gently, Virgil guided Roman’s head down to his chest, where he could rest his ear directly over Virgil’s heartbeat. A long, long breath blew from Roman’s nose. His own heartbeat, which had previously been thudding madly against Virgil’s stomach, slowly calmed.

Smiling, Virgil slipped his headphones from his pocket and connected them to his phone. He picked a calming but engaging playlist and offered Roman one bud. Tension slowly, slowly, bled out of his tight frame.

Virgil kissed the top of his boyfriend’s head.

“I’m here,” he said again, and this time it meant something entirely different. “I love you.”

Between Virgil’s gentle breath ever-so-slightly ruffling the crown of Roman’s hair, his steady-beating heart thumping under one ear and the calming music in the other, Roman fell asleep quickly.

After that, Roman didn’t have as many Bad Days. Or, maybe he did, and he just didn't remember, because now Virgil knew what to look for, and how to fix it. Roman also had a sneaking suspicion that Virgil had let something slip to the others, because they were always just as helpful as Virgil when he wasn’t around.

Sometimes, though, it wasn’t so much as it was the random Bad Days, as it was bad nights.

Roman was standing on the very top of the tower. The sun was setting gloriously over the ocean, casting the city in a beautiful golden-orange glow that reflected off the brown of Roman’s eyes. Wind ruffled at his hair. He could smell the sea spray. He could hear children laughing as they walked home from school. His chest swelled. This was his city, and he had done well with it.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Princey,” Virgil said beside him, and Roman’s heart beat harder at the small smirk he shot his way. “You had some help.”

Roman grinned, sauntering over to raise an eyebrow down at his adversary. “That I did. I really must thank Calamity at some point.”

“Oh, sure, for being thrown into a tree?” Virgil rolled his eyes, a smile of his own tugging at his lips. Roman almost wanted to eat that look off his face.

So he did.

And after a heated make-out session perched precariously on top of the highest point in the city, Roman took the time to just stare into those gorgeous, thunderous eyes.

 _You’re beautiful,_ he thought, all the time. _You’re stunning. You’re so clever and strong, and I wish I could be anywhere near worthy of you or your time. You deserve more than this could have ever given you._

“I love you,” he said, because he could, now, he had learnt how to.

Virgil grinned that happy, carefree grin.

“So this is who you’ve replaced me for,” a pleasant, chilling voice said from behind Roman.

He turned, narrowly missing a strange, thrumming attack from Missy, and glared at her.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. Her smile was innocent compared to what she practically purred.

“Only what I’m best at.”

Roman’s lip curled angrily as she leaned forward, her voice a whisper against his ear.

He wouldn’t actually remember what she had said to him, then. He would only hear a quiet gasp, not quite a breath and not quite a wheeze, sounding simultaneously right at his neck and a hundred yards from him.

He turned, but he lost his footing, and suddenly he wasn’t standing on the tower anymore, and he couldn’t reach out, he couldn't _move,_ gravity was dragging him down and he couldn’t get to Virgil and Virgil was already dead and Missy had won and he was powerless and useless and he couldn’t do _anything and—_

“Roman! Ro, breathe! It’s okay! It’s alright, breathe.”

Roman blinked, and he was sitting on a soft ground, in a dark room…

He swallowed, and the bedroom was suddenly very, very quiet. He coughed, his raw, and wondered how long he’d been screaming for.

Roman rubbed his throat gingerly as a pair of hands flittered about, pressing against his body, his face, accompanied by a murmuring, reassuring voice. Lips pressed to his forehead, his temple, his nose, cheek, chin, eyelids, everywhere they could reach, and Roman heaved a breath.

Finally, he managed to meet Virgil’s gaze through his own fear and the dark room.

“Hey, Stormcloud,” he croaked. “Sorry for waking you.”

Virgil cut him off by kissing him soundly on the lips. “What have I told you about apologising?”

“If it gets me a kiss each time, I think I’m inclined to keep doing it,” Roman said with a sore attempt for a smile. Virgil didn’t comment on the rough edges of his expression, the way his voice wavered, or how his hands shook. He wrapped his arms around Roman’s chest, resting his head on his shoulder.

“What was it?” Virgil asked, because most times Roman took solstice in admitting his fears, especially when they came in the form of a nightmare.

Roman wrapped his arms around Virgil’s waist and dragged him to sit practically in his lap. “Nothing.”

There was a pause, because he was obviously lying, and there was only one nightmare Roman refused to talk about. Virgil knew this, and he never pushed. He didn’t need to, anyway.

“Well.” He pressed a kiss to Roman’s shoulder, slowly moving up to his neck. Roman sagged against him, glad for the contact. Virgil nuzzled into his boyfriend. “Nothing sure seems like a whole lot.”

“Unfortunately,” Roman agreed somberly.

“Think you can go back to sleep?” Virgil murmured. Roman twisted to bury his face in his soft, purple hair.

“Cuddle?” Roman asked tentatively, because sometimes Virgil tightened his binder too much and Roman never wanted to cause him any discomfort.

Virgil smiled, because he knew Roman worried, and he was never opposed to cuddling. “Of course.” He guided the two of them down, letting Roman snuggle up to his chest in his favourite position, where he could feel Virgil’s heartbeat and feel his breath.

Virgil wrapped his arounds around Roman’s torso and squeezed reassuringly. Roman was already asleep again. Virgil fell asleep himself with a smile on his face. Neither of them woke until broken morning light was streaming onto their faces.

Roman wasn’t entirely sure what had happened.

He remembered Calamity stumbling into the city centre, yelling for everyone to get down. He remembered being confused moments before the place exploded in flames. He remembered groaning and realising Virgil had thrown them to the ground, covering him with his right side. He remembered Patton fussing over the four of them, assured they were all okay and uninjured.

Kaimi may have been there, at some point, helping them to usher everyone away.

He remembered the new supervillain picking a fight with Calamity. He might have remembered Kaimi’s outraged cries when she hit the ground.

He remembered as he rushed for Calamity’s side, and she was fine, but then the villain’s focus was on them.

He remembered feeling that same old frustrated agitation at being useless, powerless. Helpless.

He remembered Virgil stepping in to try and defuse the situation. He _definitely_ remembered the villain raising a weird-looking gun in his boyfriend’s direction.

And from there out, he was back on that tower. He was throwing himself at Missy, tearing and batting and punching and _fighting_ with everything he had because he had to keep her _away._ He was without powers, but he was still strong, and he was determined, and he wasn’t going to let her hurt him again, she would never hurt anyone again.

And then they were both falling, and Missy was shrieking beneath him, except it wasn’t Missy, it was the villain, and they were beaten to all hell, and god, had he done that? And there were flashing lights, and people talking, some were shouting, and he was still twisting, still kicking, still fighting—

“Hey, hey!” Virgil’s voice said, and Roman froze. His vision cleared. His boyfriend, whole and unharmed and okay and concerned, so damn concerned, was in front of him, cold hands on either side of his face.

Roman lost himself in those seas of grey and silver, and all the fight left him. He collapsed into Virgil’s chest, pressing his face into his boyfriend’s neck.

“Kaimi, get some help!” Virgil shouted over Roman’s head, and he tried shaking his head.

“‘M okay, Virge,” he mumbled. Virgil hushed him. Cool hands ran through his hair, and he melted.

The rest of it was a blur.

Nothing caught up with Roman until he was mildly thinking that he wasn’t hungry enough to eat this cookie, and he blinked, confused.

He looked up and around him, taking in the interior of _Bake My Day._ It was dark outside, and empty. The sign on this side of the door said, _Welcome! We are OPEN._ He looked down at the plate of Crofters Jam cookies in the middle of the table shared between him, Virgil, Logan and Patton.

He blinked spastically, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Hey, Pretty Boy.” A hand was clutching his. Roman looked across at Virgil, who smiled at him. “How’re you doing?”

“I…” Roman tried to speak, but his mouth was dry.

“It’s okay, kiddo,” Patton murmured, rubbing his back.

“You went into shock,” Logan explained. “You didn’t respond on the way to the hospital, or the way back here. We were told it would fade by itself.”

Roman blinked again. “What happened?”

No one seemed keen to answer that question.

“Kaimi and Katrina went home,” Patton answered without answering. “They were both okay. The police took care of the villain. He doesn’t have a name yet, apparently.”

“I… I mean to me,” Roman said weakly. “What happened to me?”

“We don’t know,” Logan said quietly. “You… snapped.”

“You got so angry.” Patton’s voice trembled; almost scared. “You just… lost it. You threw yourself at that villain like you still had your powers. It was…” The purple wristband was flush against their skin as they clasped their hands together too tightly to be comfortable. “It was so scary.”

Roman recoiled slightly, stricken. Logan didn’t notice, too busy focusing on Patton, rubbing his thumb gently along their hands.

“It wasn’t you that was scary.”

Roman looked around to see Virgil had moved from his seat across from him and was now crouching beside his chair. “It was the idea of your actions. How reckless you got.” A hint of a smile played at Virgil’s lips. “You looked kind of hot, being that badass.”

Roman couldn’t find similar happiness in himself. “I attacked that… that person.”

Virgil worked his jaw before nodding mutely.

Roman blinked rapidly, trying desperately to work out how to feel. He opened and closed his mouth as Virgil stood, rubbing his hands into Roman’s shoulders.

“I wasn’t… here,” he said finally, and Logan and Patton glanced at him. He kept his focus on Virgil and those beautiful eyes of his, willing him to understand, to not make him explain it. “I was… I was back _there_ again.”

Virgil softened ever-so-gently, and Roman felt a tidal wave of relief crash into him at the understanding.

“I’m sorry,” he found himself saying, although he knew Virgil hated it. “I don’t mean to do it. Sometimes it just happens, I can’t help it. It’s so stupid, _I’m_ stupid, god, I’m so dumb, I wish I would stop, I’m so—”

Virgil’s lips were on his, cutting his stream of words short. Roman closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of his boyfriend pressed against him. He gripped Virgil’s waist, taking the time to calm his racing mind. He was in _Bake My Day._ Virgil was kissing him. Logan and Patton could either be cooing or looking exasperated.

When Virgil pulled back, his voice was quiet, subdued. “I think I have to stop rewarding you for this kind of thing.”

“I’m not so sure,” Roman said, leaning forward for another kiss.

“If I may interject,” said Logan, carefully, “Roman?”

Only a little peeved, Roman turned from his boyfriend to the astronomer, who looked rightly sheepish, but there was something else in his eyes — apprehension, but with touches of something softer, kinder.

“What you’re feeling is natural. It’s healing. Have you… brought this up with Dr. Picani?”

Roman ducked his head. Logan sighed expectantly.

“I know, I know,” Roman grumbled. “I’ll… next time we go, okay? Is that okay?” he asked Virgil, who of course smiled and kissed his cheek, murmuring a soft, _Yeah._

“I’m—” Roman cut himself, despite Patton’s curious look. “Tired,” he finished himself, with a woozy smile.

Patton smiled back. “It’s been a big day. Why don’t we retire for the night?”

The night air was cool as it swirled around the four of them, laughing and joking. Logan groaned and Virgil smirked at Patton’s puns. Patton squeezed Roman’s hands, and Virgil rested his head on Roman’s shoulder. Logan got caught in a lecturing infodump about some fascinating concept he’d recently discovered.

Roman thought that maybe, as they walked hand-in-hand, he was going to be okay.

It wasn’t often that anyone made moves on Roman.

Not only was he quite physically intimidating and quite often surrounded by a group of friends, more often than not he had a purple-haired gremlin he had dubbed early on as “his boyfriend” at his side.

Even then, however, when he wasn't around any of his family members, and off by himself (on rare occasions), it wasn’t something he had on his mind.

Until he ventured off to look at some stall in the distance that _looked_ like it could be selling Disney posters.

Markets took up this side of the city every Sunday, and Roman had begged and pleaded to go ever since he found out. He didn’t want to go alone, because where would the fun in that be? Finally, eventually, Virgil had agreed, followed by Logan. (Patton had never needed much convincing.)

And now Roman was mightily regretting it. Both dragging the others along to the festive markets and darting away from them to go look at something by himself.

Roman was good at saying no. He was!

He was just also… easily flustered.

“Oh, come on, pretty boy,” the man before him purred, and Roman wrinkled his nose.

“Like I said,” he bit out firmly, “I’m _fine.”_

“You _are,”_ the man agreed, and he almost reminded Roman of supervillain Remy The Sandman. “I could take you back to my place, if—”

“It is the _middle of the day,”_ Roman said. _Just walk away,_ his instincts snarled at him, sounding familiarly like Virgil, and for once Roman listened.

He turned.

And his arm was grabbed.

Roman jolted, surprised. He hadn’t been touched like that before, by a stranger. Not like this, anyway, where his muscles and bones were just as fragile as everyone else’s, and he could bruise, and bleed, and it was a very startling truth.

He was so shocked that he didn’t think to pull away while the man leaned in, breath nipping at his chin.

Then the man cried out, and his hand released Roman’s arm, and Virgil was raising a second fist to hit the man again.

“Not your metal arm, babe,” Roman said automatically, and Virgil paused. After a moment of indecision, he kicked the man’s knee, and he cried out again, dropping to the ground.

“Do yourself a favour and piss off,” Virgil snarled. His face was contorted with fury. One fist was shaking with rage, the other creaking under the strain he was putting it. Roman’s pursuer quailed away with a scowl, then limped off.

Roman was still in a daze as Virgil whirled on him, his face instantly flickering back to worried and loving and affectionate and god, Roman was so, _so_ in love.

“Are you okay?” Virgil was asking frantically, his eyes scanning his boyfriend. “Are you hurt? Did he do anything to you?”

“I’m a hot mess,” Roman confessed pragmatically.

Virgil stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Meaning…?”

“You are very, very attractive when you’re pissed.”

Virgil flushed, his eyebrows raising. “Oh. Um.” He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed, and a smile tugged itself onto Roman’s face.

“It’s okay,” he assured him. “You’re always very attractive anyway, so I’m mostly used to it.”

“Oh, stop,” Virgil told him. Roman did, though only in favour of kissing him until they were both breathless.


End file.
